First let me add the back story. Our daughter was coming home from college and we had to get her little brother moved out of her room and back in the big bedroom he shares with his brother. They are 14 and 16. After the 14-year-old’s paraphernalia was removed, I dusted, vacuumed and made her bed for her.
As I was working I heard my eldest son trying to talk his brother into moving into the loft for the summer. It went something like this: “It will be so cool!” “You will love it!” “We’ll move the bookshelves and it will be private!” “I will help you!” “Let’s go ask mom.” The 14 year-old wasn’t saying much as he moved his stuff back down the hall. They came. They begged. I am still on narcotics from the car accident two months ago. I am in no state of mind to be making life-altering decisions…. like giving up the homeschool/sewing loft at 11 p.m. thankyouverymuch. I told them I didn’t care. And I didn’t. And I went to bed.
Fast forward two and a half hours to a metal wheel sound waking me up in the dark of the night. Yes, it was 1:30 a.m. I stared at the ceiling and told my husband, “This is all my fault. That noise…. it’s a pulley. I taught him how to use pulleys about 7 years ago.” We got out of bed to witness THIS:
Our 16-year-old son had made himself a castle… in the loft…. way past midnight… with a drawbridge (run with a pulley that hung from a bike hook screwed into the ceiling) …. and crenals and merlons cut from cardboard. It WAS SO COOL that he decided to move in himself. I shook my head in dismay and confessed to my husband that I also taught him about castles…. and crenals and merlons. I asked my creative son what we should call him now. Obviously he replied, “King Austin!” Of course. Silly me.
The next morning, I questioned how long he planned to live in his castle. He looked at me with hopeful eyes and answered with a question, “All summer??????” Those were his big blue puppy dog eyes staring at me. Fine. Whatever. “You will be patching the hole in the ceiling in August.” “O.k., thanks, mom.”
This could have been worse, I told myself as I climbed back into bed. I’ve also taught him about catapults, guillotines, war trenches and fur trappers. Oh, it could have been WAY worse.
Come one. Come all. Step right up and enter to win a GRAND PRIZE for you or a mother dear to your heart this Mother’s Day.
What would every mother want? A diamond ring? No. (Could get lost while playing in the sand at the park!) A new MiniVan! No. (Take it from my experience, after you hit someone in a minivan, they are not that great any more!) A dozen roses! No (They wilt in no time, especially if you bought them at Walmart!)
Maybe something to bring joy to her heart. Something to make her laugh…. and snort… and laugh some more! Yes, you guessed it! A Book! YES!
Yes, a FREE autographed copy of my book Laughing in the Midst of Mothering! Every mother you know needs a laugh! This book can be yours (for your mom if you aren’t a mom) by merely entering your name in the comments section of this blog.
You have until May 5th midnight to enter. On May 6th, after I sleep in, I will randomly draw one name from the list and announce the winner here on MSJ. I will blast the name for all to see. The winnerwill have 24 hours to contact me with an address for where to ship the book. If person #1 doesn’t contact me, I will draw another name on May 7th. :o)
Thinking I had scored a major victory at my favorite thrift store with a pair of chocolate brown capri pants, I sauntered to the sewing machine for a minor quick fix. These were TOTALLY cute capris with little buttons and tabs on the pockets and cute twill tape ties at the bottom of each leg. One glance and I figured out why the previous owner had sadly parted with these adorable pants. The wide elastic in the back of the waist band had flipped and to the untrained eye appeared to be stuck in that position. But no.
Having taken self-taught home-ec sewing for 13 years before leaving home (Okay, my mom did initially show me how to sew forward, backwards and zig zag on the ancient Sears machine), the necessary remedy for the brown capris took a few straight pins and some determination. Seriously, even with the thread change on the machine to a delicious chocolate color, the entire process took fifteen minutes.
Proud did not even begin to explain my feelings of accomplishment. Waltzing into my closet, I pulled on my new favorite pants, buttoned the waist, slid the zipper in place and unsuccessfully tugged on the brown twill tape that circled the waist. It seemed to be stuck. There was five inches sticking out on the right side and 14 inches sticking out on the left side. What in the world? Tug tug. No go. Then I realized, in all of my smarty-pants-ness I had flipped the elastic and stitched not only the elastic in place but also the draw string for the waist. Bummer dude.
I have yet to remedy the situation. I simply tie them really far to the right in a teeny bow and tuck ten inches of twill tape inside the waistband of the pants. Honestly, it would only take five minutes to pull out my stitches but I simply haven’t done it. I keep tying the miniature bow and hiding the leftovers, hoping no one will see what a mess I made of my new almost favorite pants.
I’m thankful that I am still here to write a blog for your reading pleasure. The airbags did their duty, probably a bit more intensely than required at 35 mph, yet I am trying to keep a sense of humor in the midst of it all. Please excuse any humor that may seem off color in our circumstances. Remember also I am currently using narcotics.
My cute husband and I were enjoying a moment of peace and tranquility on the back patio yesterday morning, holding hands and loving the balmy Phoenix weather in March. He squeezed my hand and conveyed a heartfelt, “I’m so glad the accident was not that bad. I could have been going to two funerals this week!” BAH! I told him that his sentiments were kind but I knew he was WAY too cheap to pay for two funerals…. there would have been just one.
This morning I visited the spinal surgeon. He had good news and bad news for me… but the good news outweighed the bad by 98%. I am not free to discuss my injuries to the world at large, but spinal surgery was negated. Thank God! Then he proceeded to tell me that my spinal condition is appropriately degenerated FOR MY AGE. What the heck was that supposed to mean? I’m in my 40s!! If he were a car salesman, this was the equivalent of kicking the tires and saying, “She’s got a few more miles in her despite the apparent neglect.” Good grief!
It has been 11 days since the accident and today was the first day I had a surge of energy and applied makeup! Small steps. It was my fourth or fifth visit to the chiropractor since the accident. As I graced the waiting room the receptionist hollers, “OH MY GOSH! You look so much better today!” Yeah, thanks. It’s just makeup. I feel the same… still sore, achy and drugged. My Dad always said, “If the barn needs painting, paint it!” I gathered from her exuberance that my natural beauty was more in my mind than in reality.
I arrived home exhausted from more outings than my typical one-per-day. While sitting at the table eating another wonderfully fabulous dinner that was delivered to us by our rockin’ homeschool peeps, my 9-year-old says to me, “I like your hair.” Okay, seriously? It is a day #2 hairdo with the back completely oily from a massage, and one flat side from my nap. She kept going with her sincere flattery, “It makes you look like a teenager, Mom. It’s pretty the way it’s not all puffy like usual.” Wow. What do you say to that?
By day of recovery #5 I finally felt like reading. I read four whole pages of the 1850′s historical fiction of which I was in the midst…. during days 6, 7 and 8. Yes, only four pages. Then day #9 my reading juices were regenerated and I finished the book. It was the last 1850′s historical novel I had in my possession and I was still on the couch for the better part of the day. CRISIS! I perused my bookshelves and discovered several stories that we were supposed to read for American History last year. Yesterday and today I read Farewell to Manzanara biography/history lesson about an internment camp during WW2 for 10,000 Japanese Americans on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevadas in California. Every summer when we drive to Lake Tahoe, we pass right by the historical marker sign that reads <—– MANZANAR. Being the history loving nerd that I am, the desire to stop has surfaced every single time we pass the sign, but we have yet to stop. Now that I’ve read the story…. we are stopping, baby. 10,000 American citizens who were considered dangerous simply by race… put in a “camp” like prisoners for THREE YEARS! Unbelievable. I’ve added this story here because I was hoping to see barracks, a mess haul, latrines, a pear orchard, etc. The end of the book describes Manzanar today as a dusty, deserted piece of land with a few cement slabs if you know where to look for them. Maybe I don’t need to stop as badly as I thought I had for the last 12 years. We’ll see this summer.
Never have I been accused of being an animal lover. We had a few pets during my childhood in suburbia Northern California, but never a dog and only once for a short time, a cat. The kitty caused my brother’s eyes to swell shut, so she didn’t stay long at all. But I did have the joy of picking out Meow Mix back in the day when the Meow Mix song was popular, hence making me popular. I was nine, it didn’t take much.
Fast forward to my ten-year-old daughter praying every night that God would change her mother’s heart (ME!) so that she could get a dog. I about coughed up a lung the first time I witnessed her heartfelt petition to the God of the universe. Anyway, the two-year vigil ended with God changing my heart… and for the past 9.5 years we have had Trixie, the Rat Terrier burrowing into our hearts and lives.
Foolishly I read Dr. Doolittle to my children years ago. Unmistakably, that was a cockamamie move on my part. Yes, we did do a stint with younger boys who NEEDED tadpoles, then frogs of course, lizards, mice, a hamster named Teddy, chickens, fish, turtles, and a hermit crab named Elvis. Truly I felt that I did my time. Of course there were requests for a horse. Thankfully we live in an HOA that doesn’t allow for horses.
Then Christmas 2011 did me in. It was December 23rd at 10:15 p.m. and my husband and I were sitting on the blue couch when my cell phone notified me of the arrival of a message. Who would be texting me that late? Of course it was a friend who had a friend who had a baby wiener dog FREE for Christmas. Good grief. We were sitting ducks. The next day I called another friend who got a baby wiener dog for Christmas the previous year and DIDN’T keep it! I gave her all my reasons for not taking the free dog, and she solved each dilemma as it arose…. we would need a crate. She had one. We would need a doggy door. She had one. And her reason for returning the puppy was because she was never home to train it….. she pointed out that we are ALWAYS home. We homeschool. We don’t leave the premises unless it is for church or a library trip. So we got sucked into Ringo the wiener dog who has been snuggling with us for over a year now.
I still cannot believe I have two dogs. Linda Ann Crosby… NOT a dog person, has two dogs, and probably will have two dogs for another five to seven years. Unbelievable! I can hardly believe I am writing a blog about dogs. I am not a dog person. Didn’t I already say that?
So the moral of the story is DON’T READ DR. DOOLITTLE to your kids if you truly want to do little. BAM!
With the sun shining and the temperatures in the comfort zone, we have been spending far more time outside in March than in December, January and February combined. Nature Journals have been forced upon my children and one out of three is loving it. That’s pretty good odds… and I love it, so we’re even Steven. I’m trying to teach them about botany, art, relaxing and creating in God’s creation. You’d think a kid who doesn’t have to sit indoors and do math would jump at the chance to draw in the sunshine. But no. If my boys ever lie on those long black leather couches and explain how I ruined them, I’m sure the Nature Journals will be mentioned. But that does not deter me. :o)
Last week we ventured out the front door to draw a Texas Ebony tree in our yard. This is a REAL Nature Journal… not a fake Nature Journal… so there are rules to be followed. AND this has to count for a botany grade for a high school student. Not like a “draw-a-dumb-tree-and-color-it-green” journal. NOOOOooooooo. The requirements include, but are not limited to: draw the shape of the tree, the bark, the leaves, the leaf arrangement, the thorns (we’re in Arizona… all the trees have thorns), the flowers, the seeds, the pods. And when you have all that drawn with exact measurements beside each, the leaves need to have their shape, venation and margin analyzed and recorded. SEE?! Not your average lame Nature Journal.
So, after the Texas Ebony had been admired from afar, with a magnifying glass and everything in between, we gathered around the kitchen table and I asked to see the renderings. Three of four were identifiable. The fourth tree, however, was …… ……. interesting. I questioned said artist, “If I gave your picture to Dad and sent him to the front yard, could he locate the Texas Ebony?” (We only have three trees in the front yard.) “Probably not.” “Go try again, son.”
And the nature loving just keeps on rolling here at L.A.K.E. Academy, a homeschool where gifted children thrive…. whether they want to or not. heh heh heh.
On any holiday that is not Christmas and Easter, my homeschooling students ask if they get the day off. We do take off each of their birthdays, and MINE, obviously! But Valentine’s Day is not a day off. Neither is Groundhog’s Day nor the first day of any season….nor the equinox of the moon… nor any eclipse. Nor the first day the NHL starts again after a strike. However, President’s Day was granted as a day off IF the kids could recite the entire list of the presidents of the United States. Didn’t even have to be in order.
We have a handy dandy Presidents of the United States place mat that re-arrived on the table during breakfast this morning, being that it IS President’s Day. (Remember when we used to get off Lincoln AND Washington’s birthdays?) None of my pupils have given their recitation of the country’s leaders as of yet… 2:48 p.m.
My 9-year-old was fascinated with all the “funny looking” men. She asked how many of them I knew personally. Um… none. Then she asked if I was alive with George Washington. Um… no. “So how many have you been alive for?” Good question. I took a gander at the place mat. Nine. I have been alive for nine presidents.
Last Friday at homeschool park day the moms FROZE in our chairs! It was so windy and cold! Well, for Phoenix, that is. It wasn’t windy at our house when we left, but 10 minutes later when we pulled into the park we hoped and prayed there were jackets in the back of the van. Thankfully, I found one for myself… my son’s hockey jacket from 5 years ago… when he was 11. No, it didn’t exactly fit, but I was able to zip it up and block the blustery cold out. It fit quite like a wetsuit. A wetsuit that is too small.
The wind blew and blew for the two hours we were huddled with arms folded tightly in the sunshine. One of my sons kept asking me, “Mom, do you know what your hair looks like?” I could see my shadow and knew it was an amusing shape… and ever-changing shape. “Mom, did you do your hair this morning?” “Mom, you should really go look at your hair.” There was nothing I could do, so I didn’t bother. For some strange reason, my 14-year-old son was extremely concerned about my hair… and my image. Maybe it was HIS image???
Yesterday was park day again. Imagine that! Friday just keeps happening over and over. Prepared for wind gusts of 50+mph, I donned a sweat suit with jacket and LOTS of hairspray. Lo and behold, winter ended in Phoenix. It was 74* F with sunny skies and not a trace of a breeze. Yesterday was also the day the moms play flag football with the kids… and lose miserably, I might add. I couldn’t even keep my jacket on sitting still because it was so warm. After playing football for ten minutes I was frying, looking for my water and a shady spot to collapse.
Spring has sprung. The air is warm, the flowers are blooming. God, please let spring last more than ten days this year!!! Please!!!
Today we were having a bonafide homeschool debate between the evolutionists and the creationists. Sadly, the creationists needed a bit more evidence and hard facts to substantiate their beliefs. Despite a few deficiencies in preparation, there was deep discussion and questioning to be had. We are studying the Grand Canyon and I was absolutely appalled at how the THEORY of evolution is presented as fact on so many websites….. primarily run by the government. Sadly true.
Anyway, at the end of the debate the kids asked what activity we were doing next and I replied, “RECESS!” A cheer rose up from seven of our eight pupils…. and then one little Colombian questioned, “What’s recess?” Uproarious laughter followed. Too funny, the things we take for granted in our knowledge of “real” school. I’m all about this fake schooling because I am learning SO MUCH!
Several years ago, my son, who didn’t read until he was NINE years old, asked what school they would go to if anything ever happened to me. I teared up thinking that my bright boy who was years ahead in math and science would have been labeled and most likely put in special education had he attended school. Knowing how wiggly he is, I told him, “You wouldn’t like school, honey. You have to sit in a desk ALL day long!” His clear blue eyes widened and he whispered in awe, “You get a DESK?!?” Nope, he had never seen the inside of a classroom before!
When my children were 7, 4 and 2-years-old (back when I only had three kids!) I read a book that stated, “A seven-year-old is capable of running a household.” It shocked me. But I bit into it…. with my jaws wide open… similar to my first bite of a Krispy Kreme donut. That night, as I laid in bed with my eyes wide open, I dreamed of training my 7-year-old to take over all the menial tasks that I dreaded as a mother and keeper of the home. I envisioned my next two offspring also reaching the ripe old age of seven…. and helping their older sister do EVERYTHING! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, this was the answer I needed … my ticket to sanity… the train bound for the hot bubbly bath surrounded by candles …. and TIME to read a good book without interruptions.
The chore chart was born that night and materialized the next day. It worked like a gem. I taught each kid a single chore, one at a time, year by year, that they could master at my cleaning expectations. Oh, would my future daughters-in-law sing praises to my name!
You may be asking yourself what I would do with all my new-found free time…. well, I’m a homeschool mom. BAM! (Homeschool mom = no free time.)
Reflecting back, after 12 long years in the saddle (and 9 to go, but who’s counting?), I have come to see the harm the chore chart did to my children. Yes, it’s true. And I am admitting it here for all the world to read. (Well, that is…. the 80% of those in the world over the age 15 who are literate… according to a 2002 statistic.) (Homeschool moms are experts at finding statistics to prove their point.)
As the teen years encompassed our home, I realized that my sweet chillin’s wouldn’t lift a finger for any chore that did not have their name next to it on that particular day. “WHAAAAT? Is that how we brought you up??? To be selfish and petty?” Made my blood boil. (That only happens at 212 degrees F…. and I was THERE, baby!)
Discussions revolving around teens and the spirit of helping, a willingness to serve, desiring to be like Jesus, etc. etc. etc. were had by yours truly and many others in my life. Since then, we have regrouped and are trying something new and improved… it’s called being nice. Being thankful. Not feeling entitled. An announcement was made at the dinner table not long ago…. it went something like this: “We are a family. We help each other. We serve each other. If someone cared enough to plan your meals, go grocery shopping, cook for you and set the table….. then you need to stick around until the whole kitchen is cleaned up and the food is put away.” BAM! It has worked beautifully for three nights now. I will keep you posted on the success of trying to teach my children to be helpful without their name written on a chart. Pray for me.
Now, those who have great faith in my chore chart abilities, do not fear. Only the kitchen tasks have been removed. Their names are still next to chores that include wiping toilets, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning windows, collecting trash, etc. etc. etc. Some things just need routine. Ok, I just need routine…. and a long bubbly bath surrounded by candles.
Welcome to My Sister's Jar. The story behind the blog lies in the original post on Feb. 2, 2008. Type "giddy moments" into the search box to find it.
I'm a homeschool mom who loves to speak and write, encouraging moms to press-on in motherhood. Two of my books are available NOW! Laughing in the Midst of Mothering and Laughing in the Midst of Marriage. See them at www.LindaCrosby.com or www.cbd.com.
I have four children, one of whom is adopted from Colombia, so there are LOTS of adoption tidbits here.
~~~~~~ Linda Ann Crosby
